


Wine and Whisky

by WhiskyNotTea



Series: Whisky's Other Outlander Tales [4]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Lots of Whisky, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-07-01 04:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyNotTea/pseuds/WhiskyNotTea
Summary: Rachel Hunter is a winemaker who leaves California behind, to follow her brother to the gloomy Edinburgh. When she finds a job in Fraser's whisky distillery, her new life in Scotland begins. And it holds more than the fruity notes and spices of whisky. It holds love.





	1. Edinburgh

“It’s just another job interview,” Rachel murmured to herself as she stepped out of the bus, closing her eyes under the blinding sunlight. With a smile, she breathed in deeply, reveling in the feel of the sun against her skin.

_How she’d missed it._

It was an elegant move of the hand, reminiscent of a Hollywood actress, that brought Rachel’s sunglasses to her face before she looked around, almost sure that she’d see the two-story houses on the main street of St. Helena.

_Almost._

Instead of the colors that painted her memories, the lovely little shops and galleries, Rachel saw only the grim gothic houses of Edinburgh. So different from California. And so much colder. It was mid-June and she was still wearing a blazer. A light one, but still, a blazer. So much of the clothing and shoes she’d brought would probably never see the light of day. Her summer dresses. Her beautiful sandals.

_But today it was sunny. And the days were still long._

Rachel walked across the street, phone in hand, searching for the bar where she was supposed meet the man. Conducting an interview in a bar. Scots were strange.

Rachel had pondered for more than an hour about going to the interview after she’d gotten the call.

_How serious could an interview in a bar could be?_

It was then, when she googled the bar’s name, that she discovered the Lallybroch Distillery and the Whisky and Freedom had the same owner, a man named James Fraser. She was supposed to meet William. Not meeting with the big boss yet.

Five minutes on foot, the app calculated.

Her pace was faster than normal, her anxiety passing from an overthinking brain to sweaty palms and fast strides. No matter how awkward this first interview was, the Lallybroch Distillery made one of the best whiskies in Scotland - or so was written in the reviews. It would be a great position to get. Assistant distiller in the firm’s branch in Edinburgh. And Rachel needed a job.

She wasn’t used to staying idle, and the idea of Denny having to provide enough to pay for them both was like a nettle, irritating her skin. She’d started applying for jobs, for any job available, from her first week in Scotland. She would compromise if she had to. But for this job, she didn’t need to compromise that much.

Just a little. Whisky wasn’t wine, after all.

Rachel had to say goodbye to the days when she tried to find the perfect balance between cherry and tomato notes in a rosé. The complementary taste of butter and vanilla in a white after staying in an oak barrel for six months. The deep color of a red, hitting her palate with black currants and plums.

Rachel was a chemist and her love for wine was at first sight. Or rather first taste. She had been the only woman in the team of winemakers in the Vittorio Sattui Winery, earning her position with studies, hard work and her unwillingness to accept “no.” She’d achieved all this before her brother decided it was a great opportunity for him to attend one of the specialty programmes in Scotland. Rachel didn’t talk to him for a week after his announcement. She then tried to put Italy and France on the table, too, but Denny was resolute. The Trauma and Orthopedic Surgery training programme in the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh was the one of his dreams. He applied and they’d accepted him. As simple as that.

And as simple as that, Rachel left the vineyards, the wine tasting, and her passion behind. She had promised to their mother that she’d never leave Denny alone. Not that she could, even if she wanted to. Denny was the only person she had in her life.

Well, he and Andrew, but things with Andrew were merely beginning when the siblings left for Scotland. Rachel and Andrew said their final goodbyes at the airport in LA, and never talked again.

She still missed his voice. The feel of his fingers in her hair.

The sunny, warm days on the beach, watching the sun setting into the ocean, orange flames burning around them as they glided on the water, swallowed by the waves only to emerge again fiercer.

The thoughts of a past life, of memories that formed less than a month ago and yet were so far away now, brought Rachel in front of the bar ten minutes early for the interview. Standing in front of the place, half a world away from the sunsets in California, her gaze travelled to the soft, worn wood of the sign.

_Whisky and Freedom_

Whisky. A whole new world to discover. A whole new world she knew nothing about.

Rachel knew grapes. Their varieties and peak harvest times, how long before the skins had to be removed so that the color of the rose color would be Provence-perfect and what casks should be used for the desired round body and just enough tannins. She had absolutely no idea about whisky. She knew nothing about barley and rye, about temperatures and distillation apart from what she’d read on Wikipedia, just before the interview. And she hoped it would be enough.

Rachel checked her watch, fixed her shirt and hair. Taking a deep breath, she opened the heavy door while looking at the reflection of her face on the yellow glass, hair smooth as silk, lipstick perfect. Removing her sunglasses, she put them on her head and squinted her eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness of the bar. It was empty at such an early hour, but the interior’s deep brown wood gave her a warm and relaxed feeling.

_Dude. The sunglasses. Be professional._

Hearing the little voice in her head, Rachel placed the sunglasses back in their case and in her purse.

_Much better._

Seeing no one around but a man behind the bar, doubled up, making noise as he moved bottles into empty crates, Rachel walked towards him with her head up high, shoulders proud, facial expression well-controlled. Ready to make a good impression.

Her efforts were in vain as the man, on his way up, bumped his head on the counter, making her burst out in laughter. So much for professionalism.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to…”

_Fuck._

The man - the young man - gave her a genuine smile, rubbing the back of his head. “Do I amuse ye, lass?” He asked her in a thick accent, making a grin blossom on her face.

“Maybe… a little…” She grimaced, shrugging apologetically. “I’m sorry, I’m horrible.”

“Aye, ye are,” he leaned on the counter, looking at her. His eyes were a common brown, much like hers, but his gaze was sweet and straightforward; open. Like a dessert wine, easy to drink and easy to get drunk with. A Napa Valley late harvest with notes of apricot, orange marmalade and honey.

“What?” She asked, realizing that she hadn’t heard a word of what he’d said.

“I asked, how can I help ye? Tis early and the bar is still closed but for ye, I could make an exception.”

_Is he hitting on me? How long have I been staring at him?_

Rachel composed her features again, and with a blunt voice she announced that she had an interview with William. Feeling the absence of a last name echoing in her short request, she turned her gaze on her hands, fidgeting with her bracelet.

“Are ye applying for the position?”

“Apparently,” she said, immediately regretting her clipped response. However, he didn’t seem to take any offense.

“Willie isna here yet, lass, but ye can keep me company, if ye want to.” Pointing at the stool across from him, he smiled. “I’m Ian, by the way.”

“Rachel,” she said, propping herself up onto the stool.

“From?”

“Pennsylvania. But I lived in California for years.”

“If I was in L.A…” He sang-murmured.

“Exactly! Well, I was,” she said, feeling the same rueful smile forming on her face again.

“And judging from that tone, you want to go back.” He simply stated reading her expression as he moved a bit closer.

“Well, it’s not - ”

“I’m here!” A voice came from the opened door, which was now letting the sunrays sneak into the bar. A tall man, with broad shoulders and brown curls approached the two, a huge smile displaying an array of white teeth. He seemed nice, but Rachel’s gaze instantly went back to Ian. He was looking at her. With a wink, Ian stood straight inside the bar counter again, and turned to the newcomer.

“Willie, this is Rachel.” He said, rolling the ‘r’ of her name, and Rachel realized how beautiful it sounded.

“Nice to meet ye, Rachel,” William extended a hand and Rachel rushed to take it in hers. “I’m William.”

_A firm shake. Good start._

“I’m sorry that I’m late,” William said, pausing for a moment before he added, rolling his eyes and looking at Ian, “Bree.”

Ian chuckled, shaking his head. “Will you two want anything to drink?”

“I think we’re fine, Ian,” William looked at him with his lips in a prudish pucker.

“Could I have a glass of water, if that’s not too much trouble?” Rachel asked with a smile.

“Sure,” Ian grinned and cocked an eyebrow to William, making it hard for Rachel to stop the smile from turning into a grin. “Here ye are, lass,” he placed the cold glass of water on the counter, his eyes in hers.

“Shall we go then, Rachel?” William gestured towards a closed door, that most likely was the office.

“Sure,” she said and followed William with a last glance back at Ian, who mouthed ‘good luck,’ boosting her confidence and making the grin reappear.

William, apparently, was the son of Jamie Fraser and worked in the distillery department at Lallybroch, a place in the Highlands, near Inverness. The interview lasted for about an hour, and William was much better prepared than Rachel thought when she first met him. He was about her age, but he’d been educated in the prestigious ‘Wine and Spirit Education Trust’ and knew a lot about wine - not as much as she did, but still enough. They talked about the Fraser distillery, its history and values, and its whisky production. Rachel assured him that she’d learn the art of making whisky fast, if properly trained, as she tried to project her passion from wine to whisky. She must have been quite successful, because at the end William stood up, shook her hand again and told her that she should wait for a phone call, to arrange a second interview, this time with Jamie Fraser.

“Would you like to stay? For a dram?” He asked her before reaching the door, his slanted blue eyes fixed on her. “To have a taste of the Fraser whisky?”

_Was that a trap?_

“Yes, sure,” she nodded, nervously opening and closing the clasp of her purse.

The door opened, revealing a bar that was half full now, with a busy Ian serving the patrons occupying the stools on the counter.

She briefly contemplated why she seemed to be so concerned with Ian’s work, but brushed the thought aside as William stopped at a small table.

“Shall we sit here?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.

Rachel took a chair as William left to get their drinks. He was impressive, towering most of the men in the bar and yet he was modest, as if he didn’t know the effect he had on women. Heads turned discreetly towards him as he passed by the tables, gazes moving with him. Rachel’s eyes followed him as well, until he reached the bar. From that point on, they stayed fixed on Ian.

Ian poured whisky into two low glasses and passed them to the men standing in front of him before raising his head to find her eyes. He tied his light brown hair into a bun, and smiled at her, shyly, giving her a questioning thumbs up as he nodded at William. Rachel shrugged in response, only to see him winking at her encouragingly, and raising a glass as if in a toast. William moved behind him unaware of their silent communication, taking a bottle from the display and two glasses before he walked back to the table.  

In the next couple of hours, Rachel had more whisky than she’d had in her whole life. She searched for the complexity, the different notes - fruity, flowers, nuts and smokiness - and she found them all.

Yes, she could work on whisky. It offered a challenge.

As time passed though, the qualities got mixed, her head buzzed and she just wanted her bed. Thanking William - not William anymore, just Willie - for all his help, she tried to focus on placing one foot in front of the other and reach the bar’s door.

She stood in the fresh air for a moment, feeling the cold breeze against her face when she heard her name, followed by a hand on her arm.

“Are ye okay?” His voice was low, hiding a hint of worry.

“Mmm,” she responded with her eyes closed.

“D’ye want me to take ye home? I canna leave right now, but - ”

She opened her eyes then, and saw him. Lean and tall, with toned muscles just visible beneath his T-shirt. Strong but subtle. “I’m fine, Ian,” she smiled, searching for the pine honey in his eyes. “I don’t drive, I’ll just walk back to the bus.”

“Are ye sure?” He asked, pressing her to admit her drunkness. His gaze trailed over the grey sidewalk and he added, somehow regretfully, “Willie could walk ye home.”

“I’m more than sure, no need to call Willie. I can hold my alcohol.”

“Aye, that ye do, lass.” She smiled at her, and she thought that his smile held just the right amount of sweetness and mischief. Like a merlot, fruity, with tantalising hints of vanilla and spice.

“Good night, Ian,” she said and squeezed his arm. “And thank you!”

“Good night, Rachel.”

These ‘r’s again, rolling like the water when it reaches the roots, nurturing, giving life.

Rachel walked back to the bus station, seeing, for the first time, the Edinburgh buildings for what they were.

_Mysterious and beautiful. Like whisky. Like the Scots._


	2. The Interview

“This seems like a lot of water to drink for someone who went to a bar just for an interview.” Denny eyed the bottle in Rachel’s hand and took a bite of his french toast. **  
**

“I don’t remember asking you to check on my water consumption, Denzell, but thank you anyway.” Too many words. She’d try to be more laconic next time.

This headache was killing her.

“I was just observing that you’ve drank almost a liter of water in the last thirty minutes. How did the interview go?” Denny looked at her, serious for a moment, before he chuckled to himself. “I hope you didn’t get salty with the poor guy just because he made the mistake to have his business in Edinburgh.”

“I’m not salty,” Rachel stated, sinking deeper into the soft sofa. She could still feel the new fabric straining, not used to holding people just yet. It had been less than a week since Denny brought it home. She had been mad at him for not consulting her first, but he insisted that it was half price and he had to hurry.

“Yeah, sure, you’re not,” her brother’s voice brought her out of her reverie. “You’re the sunshine Scotland’s missed all the past years.”

Rachel heard his ironic smile between the words, and all she could come up with as a response was to toss a throw-pillow at his head. If only she had the strength.  _That was why people call it a throw-pillow, right?_

“You didn’t answer my question,” Denny insisted. “You did go to the interview, right? The whisky distillery?”

“Mmm.” Even humming made her headache worse. “Went… good.”

_Did it, though?_

Her gaze traveled from the glass of water to her phone, silent, on the coffee table.

She had only dreamed it. He’d never asked for her number. He hadn’t texted her, hadn’t asked if she’d arrived home safe.

“What’s wrong with me?” she murmured, reaching for the acetaminophen next to the offending device.

She had dreamed of Ian. If she had drunk wine, instead of whisky, she would have never dreamt of a guy she’d talked to for less than twenty minutes. She knew wine and it knew her, too. It didn’t play dangerous games with her. But no, she’d had a lot of whisky, instead. A treacherous spirit, that one.

“You’re bored, that’s what’s wrong with you,” she heard her brother again from the doorway as he put his light jacket on, almost ready to go. “I assume you’re drinking for science? Comparing the Californian wine to the Scottish one?”

“There is no Scottish wine. And you’re still here. Aren’t you late for work already?” She asked, rolling her eyes. Her intolerable brother.

“I love you, too, sis,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“I love you, too, ass,” Rachel murmured and leaned her head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

_Finally, alone._

She was extremely thirsty, Denny had been right about that. Last night she had lost count of her drinks after the third one. William was kind and eager to show her everything, and she’d assumed this was a good thing. His smile was warm and his voice carried softly in the bar’s air, filled with thick Scottish accents.

Now, sober in her apartment, she realized how unprofessional it was to stay and drink with him after the interview. He had somehow convinced her at the beginning that it was a part of the procedure.

Meet the Frasers, meet their whisky.

At the beginning, she was extremely careful when he arrived with the first drinks. She took her time analyzing them. But the more she drank, the less attention she paid to Willie. Her gaze kept traveling back to the bar, to Ian, with the rebel looks and the gentle eyes.

Ian, who hadn’t asked for her number.

_And why would he?_

Rachel ran her hands over her face and stood up. She walked across the living room to the simple white desk - two weeks in their new house now - and turned her laptop on. Not that she’d have a follow up email already - it was too early.

If there would be an email after all. William had said they would call her.

_Would they?_

Before checking on her cover letter for two other applications she’d prepared together with the Fraser Distillery position, Rachel walked to the kitchen, chose the biggest mug available and poured coffee, filling it to the rim.

Three cups of coffee later, the first application was sent. To the Scottish Salmon Company.

Who would have imagined that. Smelling fish all day long. Not that she hated fish, but having them around her every day… that was far from ideal - half a planet away far.

Rachel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Priorities. First of all, find a job.

She missed the vineyards. She wanted to check her Facebook timeline for new pictures from the colleagues - ex-colleagues - when she noticed the email notification. Gulping, she pressed her thumb on her phone’s screen, a bit more forcefully than usual.

 

_Dear Ms Hunter,_

 

She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. The next lines held an answer, patiently waiting for her to read. Expectations rose inside her, battling with doubts and her eyes ran to the words in their own volition.

 

_Thank you for taking the time to talk to us about the assistant distiller position. We enjoyed getting to know you, and we’d like to invite you for a second interview at our corporate office._

_Your interview will be with Mr James Fraser, distillery manager and owner of the Lallybroch distillery, and will last approximately forty-five minutes._

_Would you be available on Tuesday, at 11am? Please let me know if another date or time would work best for you._

_Looking forward to meeting you again,_

_Kind regards,_

_Glenna FitzGibbons_

 

Rachel read and re-read the email. She had a second interview. With James Fraser - the owner.

Maybe William did like her after all.

With a bouncing leg and a smiling lip caught between her teeth, she replied.

–

Rachel looked at herself in the mirror one last time before leaving the elevator. Light blue shirt, black pants, black pumps. She took a deep breath. Checked her mascara. Took another breath. The doors opened and she walked mechanically to the hallway, standing in front of Fraser’s office one moment too long.

“Can’t stay in here forever…” she mumbled, a firm hand pushing the door.

“Good morning,” she said to the lady sitting behind the desk at the reception.

“Good morning, dear,” the lady returned with a smile, glasses low on her nose. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Rachel Hunter.” Her heart beat loudly in her chest. “I’m here to meet Mr James Fraser, for the position -”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the lady interrupted her before she had time to finish. “We’ve been waiting for ye. I’m Glenna, Glenna FitzGibbons.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms FitzGibbons.” Rachel’s hand was gripping the handles of her bag as if holding on for dear life and it took her a moment to open her palm to shake the lady’s extended hand.

“Mr Fraser will see ye in a minute,” she said, and disappeared down the hallway behind her.

Rachel stood in place, her eyes wandering around, taking in the reception area. It was simple, with pictures adorning the white walls. Pictures of people with huge smiles. Every picture was hung in a similar dark frame, a date handwritten on each on of them. Rachel moved closer, curious to discover the stories they had to tell.

_A black and white picture with people sitting on whisky casks, dated 1961._

_A man with dark hair, holding a bottle of whisky, dated 1968._

_A woman wearing high waist bell bottom jeans standing in a warehouse and smiling to the camera, with three children making faces next to her, dated 1974._

_Two teens, a redheaded boy sitting on a cask and a black haired girl leaning on him with hands crossed in front of her chest, dated 1980._

_The teens of the previous picture, older now, with a curly haired woman and -_

“Ms Hunter?”

Rachel jerked at the voice, abruptly turning to see Mrs FitzGibbons smiling at her. She had gotten lost in the pictures, in the story of this family that lived next to malt, changing with the years, like the whisky in the casks.

“Right this way, lass.”

–

Forty-five minutes; it was written in the email.

When Rachel left Fraser’s office, a glance at the large clock at the end of the hall revealed she’d been in there over an hour. It felt like it had been less than twenty minutes. He was impressive, with an imposing stature and clever blue eyes but he didn’t make her feel uneasy. He reminded her of William, somehow, but there was something different between the two men, something she couldn’t point at, but felt it was there.

Their conversation had a flow that made her feel like it wasn’t an interview. He asked about her studies and her experience with wine. His questions held an interest that rang true. He didn’t ask her the same old boring questions about herself and her advantages, about her free time and hobbies. Instead, he asked her why she had chosen them, why whisky.

“When I was working on wine, I thought I could never find anything more complex, more intriguing. But I can now say that I was wrong,” she said and meant it. “Whisky is another world for me, Mr Fraser, and I’m eager to get lost in it and discover its secrets.”

He seemed pleased with her answer, a soft smiling curving up one corner of his lip.

William and Ian did that too.

He talked to her then, about whisky. His second greatest love, he called it. “My father started the distillery, and now it’s my sister and myself who run it. Scots drink a lot of whisky, Ms Hunter, as you will soon find out.”

So William hadn’t told him that she’d already found out just how much. “I’ve had some of  _your_  whisky, to be honest. William was kind enough to go through a tasting with me.”

Jamie Fraser raised his eyebrows for mere seconds before schooling his face again. “And what did ye think of our products, then?”

“I loved how each of them was special. Different. I could tell if it was the same series with increased maturation or a different whisky all together,” Rachel said with a smile. “That was what made me fall in love with wine - how even the year could make such a difference, each harvest offering something new to us to work with.”

Jamie Fraser smiled contently at that, and Rachel took a breath, feeling sure of herself. She hadn’t lied or said anything exaggerated. Tasting the vintages with William had made something inside her click, a missing piece that fit perfectly in the emptiness she’d felt since she left California. The butterscotch aroma she tried to bring to her Chardonnay using toasted oak barrels. The almond notes she’d found in that Valpolicella Classico Superiore of 1998, but more intense, filling her senses. There was something in whisky, something she’d always pursued in wine. A strength, a declaration of passion.

Jamie Fraser went on to tell her about the business expansion and her duties as an assistant manager. “My son, William, does the same in our first distillery, at Lallybroch. That was where everything started.”

His proud smile turned to a wistful one. Personal reasons, he said, made him pursue the expansion in Edinburgh. There would be different whiskies produced at each location, and while he would stay in Edinburgh, training her himself, William would return to Lallybroch to operate the distillery there, with his sister’s family.

Rachel felt engrossed in Jamie Fraser’s world, in his dreams and aspirations. He had a way with words, rolling them in his thick accent, transforming ideas into vivid images. A born storyteller, he could have easily become a writer in a parallel universe. He gave the words colors and scents - sweet and buttery, woody and gingery - as if he was making his whisky just in front of her.

Rachel listened to the details about the new distillery as if it was the only thing that mattered to her. And somehow it was. She had found her purpose.

Fraser’s shake was firm and warm before he bid her  _au revoir_.

_Au revoir_ \- that was a good thing. Rachel left his office with her heart calm and a soft smile on her face.

She was walking towards the elevator, Mrs FitzGibbons’ wishes to have a wonderful day still hanging in the air, when she saw its door opening.

William entered, wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans - much more casually dressed than when she last saw him at the interview. He was murmuring the words of the song he was listening to, but removed the earplugs the moment he saw her.

“Rachel.” He smiled at her, bending in a way, reminding her of a bow.

“Hello, William.” Rachel’s smile turned to a grin when she noticed the empty bottle of whisky in his hand.

William’s eyes followed her gaze and he shrugged, rolling his eyes. “It was empty! My father asked for it, to check some marketing details!”

“Are you sure?” Rachel teased him. “You seemed to finish up some of these at the bar…”

“Not alone,” he winked at her. “You didn’t pass by the bar again. We had live music last night, and we stayed till late. There is another performance on Friday, if you’d like to…”

“That sounds fun!” She interrupted him before he could go on, suddenly afraid of what he’d say. She paused for a moment, before adding in a more serious voice, “Thank you for the referral to Mr Fraser, William.”

“You’re welcome. Talk to you soon?”

“Well, I hope so!”

She entered the elevator, staring at the mirror until she hit the ground floor, unable to stop the grin from spreading over her face.

She might have gotten the job.

Leaving the building, Rachel walked towards the old city, ignoring the drizzle falling from the grey sky. It was still early, and the day was warm. She would walk around, buy herself a coffee and then something to eat.

A man with a tattoo passed by her when she crossed the North Bridge, making her heart stop.

It wasn’t him.

But if she got the job, she would see Ian again.


	3. A Distillery Tour

Rachel stood in the middle of the distillery’s reception area with a frown on her face. She looked around the empty, quiet room and reached in her pocket for her phone. She read William’s text again. Tuesday, 10am, first tour at the Fraser distillery.

Her first day at work - or something close to that. After Mrs. FitzGibbons’ formal mail informing her she’d been hired - which she’d read three times to make sure she really got the job and then let out a celebratory scream -  her phone had pinged with a message from William, congratulating her and asking her to meet him at the distillery to show her around.

Now she was there,  _on time_ , and he was nowhere to be found. She started texting him but deleted the message - better wait for him for a few more minutes. The reception area was large but it gave her a warm feeling, similar to the one she’d had in the reception room before entering Jamie Fraser’s office. There were no framed pictures of the family here, hanging one next to the other in chronological order, but a large painting adorned the fireplace, one that seemed inspired by a group picture. There were more people than she could count, smiling in front of an estate that seemed at least three hundred years old.

_Lallybroch_ , Rachel realized.

On the wall next to the painting was a beautiful collage with distillery pictures and newspaper snippets about the history of whisky. If Rachel hadn’t been absorbed in reading about the deep roots of whisky in Scotland’s life and economy, she would have heard the door open and then swing shut again.

“Oh! You’re here,” William said instead of a greeting, moving his sunglasses to the top of his head to reveal two slanted blue eyes shyly looking at her. “The coffee machine hasn’t arrived yet, so I went to the coffee shop on the corner, to buy us some coffee.” He flashed her a wide smile and gave her a paper cup. “It’s black, but I got extra sugar and milk, in case -”

“Black is fine,” Rachel said, smiling politely. “Thank you, William.”

He nodded, satisfied by her answer. “So what do you think?”

“The reception area looks nice! I like the bar in the back.” She pointed towards the side of the room with her paper cup, the bar still empty, but its dark wood stools inviting people for a whisky tasting.

“Da says the place doesn’t feel right, yet. He says the smell is wrong.”

Rachel frowned and sniffed twice, unable to detect the scent that might trouble Jamie Fraser.

“It smells of paint, new furniture, and new equipment,” William explained. “No barley, peat, or fermentation. It doesn’t smell like a distillery yet,” he winked at her and took a careful sip of his still very warm coffee.

“So everything is brand new here?” Rachel asked, tentatively trying hers.

“Aye, it is! Ready to see it?”

The distillery was impressive. The malting house very big, it’s floor patiently waiting to be covered with barley, to start the magical procedure of making whisky. Rachel listened to William intently while he explained how things would work, and tried to imagine herself working there, checking the process, seeing a plain crop transform into something complicated, enticing.

They were past the mashing room and heading to the washbacks used for wort fermentation when William’s phone rang. “Sorry,” he said with a grimace, “I have to take it.” William walked back towards the reception area with fast, wide strides, leaving Rachel alone.

Rachel walked up the remaining part of the corridor to get to the washbacks. She smiled when she saw the large wooden containers instead of the stainless steel ones she’d found on the internet. Fraser continued making his whisky the old way - she liked that. Rachel walked around the containers, thinking them filled with wort and yeast, the wood warm from fermentation, alcohol scenting the room. Biting her lip, she searched for a vantage point to check their washbacks’ depth - she’d read they could get almost twenty feet deep.

“Hi,” came a whisper in her ear, and Rachel jumped, a hand flying over her heart to calm its thunderous beating.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathing fast.

“Ye can just call me Ian,” the voice said, and she could hear the smile in his words. His hands took hold of her upper arms, keeping her stable.

“Ian,” she said turning around, and she couldn’t help but smile. Smiling seemed so easy when Ian was close. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes were closer to green today, and she wondered how she hadn’t noticed that in the bar. She had thought them a plain brown, back then, but she was mistaken.

“I came for supplies,” he shrugged. “Whisky for the bar. And you? What are you doing here?” he asked, although he knew exactly what Rachel was doing there. “Should I congratulate you?”

“I guess you should!” she said, grinning broadly. She suddenly felt self-conscious, and she fidgeted with a lock of her hair, before tucking it behind her ear.

“Congratulations, then, Ms. Hunter,” he said and bowed with a flourish. “It is a total delight to have you with us.”

She hadn’t expected such a formal response and wondered if he was being sarcastic. Maybe he didn’t care that she was hired. Deciding to reply in the safest way, she bowed back at him, and said, “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. -” She didn’t know his last name.

“Murray. Ian Fraser Murray,” he helped, the corner of his lips curling up.

“Mr. Murray,” she continued her sentence.

“So, what do you think?” Ian asked her, pointing around. “Pretty cool, ha?”

“Pretty cool,” she laughed at his rapid vocabulary change. “Will you work here, too?” The question was out before she’d realized it, and she bit her lip hard, hoping that her tone didn’t show the hope in her voice.

“Ah no, lass. Just at the bar. Someone has to sell the product, aye?”

“I guess so,” she agreed.

They kept silent for a moment, just looking at each other, enfolded in the quietness of the room. Rachel felt her heart beating hard against her ribcage, but her breaths were slow, calm. She breathed in the wood’s scent and the fresh and peppery smell coming from Ian, and she barely kept herself from inhaling deeply to take more of him in. Ian looked at her with a faint smile on his lips and opened his mouth as if to say something -

“I’m back!” William said, coming through the doorway behind Rachel, and then a barely audible, “Oh.”

“Morning, Willie,” Ian said, adjusting his hair in a bun, and Rachel involuntarily fixed her eyes on his biceps, the lines of his tattoo straining with the motion.

When William came to stand next to Rachel, he told Ian that the whisky he came for was in a white box behind the bar at the reception. Ian dropped his hands in his jeans’ pockets, in a way that said he knew that already.

He chatted briefly with William about the delivery and an upcoming event at the bar, and then turned to leave with a goodbye. When he was at the door, he stopped and looked back, his gaze fixed on Rachel just for a millisecond, enough to make her doubt she saw him looking at her altogether.

“So,” William tried to get her attention back. “Our washbacks.”

It took them more than an hour to finish the tour, and even though Rachel was focused on William and the distillery, for a good fifteen minutes she couldn’t get rid of the lingering question that flashed at the back of her mind.

_What was Ian doing at the fermentation room when it was obvious that the whisky he came to pick up was at the reception?_

Unable to find a convincing answer and unwilling to let herself hope, Rachel focused her attention on the tour.

She didn’t want to leave the stillhouse, the shiny copper pot stills reminding her of musical instruments waiting for someone to give them life, to start the music. They went back to the reception area, sat in the comfortable leather couch and spent another hour talking about esters and their fruity notes, aldehydes and their vanilla-like scent. Rachel was excited. Her coffee was long gone, and the energy boost she felt had nothing to do with the caffeine consumption. She wanted to start working as soon as possible, to be a part of the team that would produce some of the most extraordinary whisky.

“This is Lallybroch,” William confirmed her previous guess, when he saw her gaze fall on the painting over the fireplace. “My sister is an artist, this is her work,” he added with a proud smile.

“Impressive! And these are the distillery’s employees?” she asked and rose to stand in front of the painting, to find the faces she already knew among the strangers. Jamie Fraser was in the middle, his arm around the waist of the same brown-haired woman she’d seen in the pictures in his office. The painting was amazing, the details so close to life that it looked like an edited picture. Next to Fraser on the other side stood a tall, beautiful woman with long red hair, holding hands with a dark, bearded man, with the sweetest smile. William stood next to the woman with the curly hair, his hair a bit shorter, his shoulders squared like his dad’s. Ian -

“No,” William replied, interrupting her thoughts. “This is just family. My aunt Jenny, Da’s sister, has five children and some of them have already children of their own, so you can imagine…”

“And you all work for the distillery?”

“The distillery or the bar. Not all of us, though. My mam is a doctor,” he said and chuckled, hurrying up to continue when he saw Rachel’s puzzled look. “But one could say that she works for the distillery, too. She’s our honorary taster. And da’s inspiration, as he says himself,” he continued, rolling his eyes.

Rachel chuckled and turned to look at the picture again. A big, happy family. A moment later, she spotted Ian. He stood next to the short woman with the black hair Rachel had seen in the pictures in Fraser’s office. He was thinner, the tattooed hand scratching a huge dog’s ear. He seemed different, his hair held loose on the nape of his neck, his smile strained.  

“Excuse me?” she said when she realized William was talking to her. “I got distracted.” She shook her head, as if to push the thoughts away, and turned to find William’s blue eyes looking intently on her. Lost in her daydreaming, she half expected to find Ian’s hazel ones.

“I was saying,” William smiled patiently, “That we have an event at the bar on Friday about underestimated blended whiskies. This year we’ll release our first blended whiskies, and we want to promote the idea of something affordable, yet with a great quality. You should come.”

“Of course I will,” she said, not sure if her first thought was to show Jamie Fraser that his decision to hire her was the right one, or to see Ian again.

_If William had taken a few more minutes on the phone, Ian might have invited her himself. Maybe this was what he wanted to say before getting interrupted…_

Rachel smiled at William who smiled back at her, and reached for her purse. It was time to go. The tour had answered a lot of her questions about the distillery, and had opened much more about Ian.

But Friday was close, and she’d see him again.


	4. Highland Nectar

Rachel looked at herself in the mirror.

_Is the red lipstick too much?_

It was a work event, and she had to look professional. She might meet important clients, coworkers, collaborators. They had to take her seriously. Yet, most of all, she wanted to look beautiful because Ian would be there. Behind the bar, serving whisky, joking with the customers, looking at her.

Would he look at her?

Rachel closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

_Don’t think of Ian. Think of whisky. The event is about blended whisky._

She had spent hours reading about blended whisky so she could get involved in professional conversations. She had to prove to Fraser that hiring her had been the right thing to do. She even had to prove it to herself.

“Roughly nine out of 10 bottles of Scotch sold around the world are blends,” she recited, standing in front of her closet.

_Is a black dress a good choice? In the middle of the summer?_

Rachel took the dress out, taking a moment to look at it. “No,” she said at last, shaking her head. She needed something happier, less rigid.

_Better the blue and white striped skirt, with a blue top. Yes, much better._

She got dressed, her thoughts flitting back to the event. Blends reminded her of wine. The key was to choose the right varieties, each one for its unique characteristics, and then find the perfect equilibrium between them. To reach a balance, so that they wouldn’t compete with each other. Each fusion was a dance, the different components like couples, ready to move in sync, their garments swirling around, enhancing their strong points and hiding their weaknesses. It was an art.

“Blended doesn’t mean cheap,” she murmured. “The Last Drop Distillers released a 1971 vintage blended Scotch whisky for £3,000 a bottle last year. First blended in 1893. The blend remained in oak barrels and combines more than 40 different single malt and grain whiskies,” she reminded herself.

“Are you ready?” Denny popped his head into her room. He had a shift at the hospital and was dressed for work.

“Yes, are you?”

“Ready and excited to go to work!” he said, sarcastically, but Rachel knew that he was indeed excited to go to the hospital. The Royal Infirmary was what he had expected it to be, maybe even more. “Sorry I can’t come with you, Ray,” he said apologetically and kissed her cheek.

“Well, Fraser’s wife won’t be there, either, so I guess that’s alright!” Rachel laughed.

Fraser’s wife, the curly-haired woman in the pictures Rachel had seen in his office, was Denny’s supervisor, and one of the best surgeons at the hospital.

“I’ll tell her you said hi!” he teased.

“No, you won’t!” She scowled, daring him to mention her to Fraser’s wife.

“Blended Malt,” Denny said, changing the subject smoothly while searching for his keys.

“Combining two or more single malt scotches from different distilleries into one batch. They are typically more medium to full-bodied.”

“Good.” Denny smiled. “Blended Grain.”

“A blend of single grain scotches from two or more separate distilleries. Lighter and milder than single malts.”

“Correct. Blended Scotch.”

“The majority of the blends. A mix of both single malt and single grain scotches from two or more separate distilleries.”

“Great! I’m good to go to the event if you don’t want to!” Denny laughed, and his sister huffed her disagreement.

It was a good thing that he wasn’t able to go with her, considering that he would tease her to death if he realized how much she liked Ian. She could almost hear him now.

_Man buns are horrible, don’t you think, sis?_

“I’m off!” Denny said, shaking her out of her thoughts. “You’ll do great. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” Rachel looked at her watch. “Or I wouldn’t, if I had left already,” she muttered to herself when she heard the door swinging closed.

–

The first person she saw was Jamie Fraser. Towering over everyone, he was talking intently to a group of people Rachel had never seen before. He hadn’t noticed her, though, so she slipped to the side, not ready to be introduced to anyone yet.

Maybe she should get herself a whisky first.

She made her way to the bar. A grumpy looking, bearded man was there, cleaning glasses with a towel.

“Can I help ye, lass?” he asked when his eyes landed on her. A pang of disappointment made her stomach clench.

“Umm, yes. I would like -”

“I have that, Uncle.” Ian straightened himself behind the bar, smiling at her.

“If ye say so, lad,” the bearded man murmured, setting a meticulously clean glass in a rack.

“This is Rachel,” Ian grinned. “She’s the new assistant distiller. She’ll work with Uncle Jamie here, in Edinburgh.” Rachel’s smile got wider at every word. “Rachel, this is Murtagh. Technically, my boss.”

Murtagh’s eyes flicked back forth between Ian and Rachel. “Happy to have ye on the team, lass,” he finally said, and after a small nod turned his attention to the customers who had just arrived.

“Can I help ye, lass?” Ian repeated his uncle’s words with a wide grin.

“Well, I think you can…” Rachel paused for just a second. “Lad.”

Ian chuckled at her. “We’re only serving blends tonight. Try this.” He took a bottle from the display behind him, poured the amber liquid into a tumbler, and pushed it towards her. “Tell me what ye think.”

“Rachel!” She heard the voice from behind her back the moment she took hold of the glass. “You made it.”

Rachel saw Ian exhale just before she turned to greet William.

“Hi William! I told you I would come. I’ve started the tasting already.” She raised her drink towards him, and brought it to her nose to smell its aroma.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, and Rachel realized she didn’t know. She hadn’t even asked Ian when he served her, never looked at the bottle. With his head bowed, she had the perfect opportunity to watch him closely; she’d noticed how his hair changed from dark to an almost blonde at the ends, observed how his biceps flexed, tried to make out the tattoo on his inner arm.

Rachel looked at the whisky in her hand, then turned towards Ian. “What am I drinking?” she asked.

“Highland Nectar,” Ian stated, not looking up from his work.

“Highland Nectar?” William whispered, surprised. “Have you gone mad?”

Ian shrugged and resumed to clean the bar in front of him.

“Why? What’s wrong with Highland Nectar?” Rachel asked, looking at them alarmed.

“The distillery stopped its production in the sixties,” William hissed, still looking at Ian.

“So I’m drinking a whisky that’s almost sixty years old?” Rachel looked at her drink with wonder, and moved the tumbler to her nose again.  

“Aye.” Ian’s voice was different, not sweet or playful as it had been before. “Tis  _fine_ , Willie.”

“You know you’re not supposed to -” William leaned towards Ian, his arms on the bar.

“Aye, I ken. So what.” Ian interrupted, narrowing his eyes, clenching the towel with his fist.

Tension crackled between them. Shallow breaths moved their chests, the muscles in their arms contracting, ready to pull them in a fight. Rachel looked at them, stunned, not knowing what to do. William had given her a few vintages to try before, the first day she had come for the interview, and he had seemed okay with that. Not  _that_ old and expensive, but those had been fine whiskies, too.

“I haven’t drank any of it yet, maybe we could pour it back?” she suggested, but neither of them turned to look at her.

“No, we’re not pouring it back.” Ian’s voice was sharp, cold as ice. His eyes were fixed on William, looking at him from a few inches higher. “Tis for ye, Rachel,” he said and his voice softened. “I want ye to try it.”

Rachel was trying to think of something to say when the sound in the room lulled to a hush Jamie Fraser’s voice cut in.

“Thank ye all for coming today to celebrate the wonder of a blended whisky with us. As most of ye may already know, we at the Fraser Distillery have dedicated years of effort and love to the production of fine single malt whiskies.” Rachel tried to focus on Fraser’s speech, wishing Ian and William would do the same. They had ceased hissing at each other when Fraser’s strong voice filled the room. “We aim to continue doing so,” Fraser continued, “but from this year forward, blended whiskies will be added to the Fraser collection. Those whiskies will be produced here, in Edinburgh. Ms Rachel Hunter,” he said, gesturing towards Rachel and making all the people in the room turn their heads towards her, “is our new assistant distiller, and she’ll help us create a unique series of blended whiskies that ye’ll love.”

Rachel smiled and bowed her head, hoping her face wasn’t embarrassingly red.

“Blends are a form of art,” Fraser continued. “To find the single malts, to choose them depending on their characteristics and combine a myriad of components to create one harmonious and consistent whole. Tis magic, or better, alchemy.”

Rachel nodded, thinking how similar Jamie Fraser’s thoughts were to her own.

Fraser came over to Rachel, took her arm, and together with William they walked from table to table, introducing her to people, chatting about whisky and continuing the tasting.

“Lord Elcho,” William said after returning from the bar with a bottle he’d taken from Murtagh. A few attendees crowded around to look at the label.

“Lord Elcho was named after the 5th Earl of Wemyss,” Fraser said. “He was stripped of his title after the Battle of Culloden, and was forced into exile in France.”

“It’s a particularly good blend,” William said, swirling his tumbler. “Very malty.“

“What do you smell?” Fraser asked the couple - Rachel had already forgotten their names - with a smile.

“Vanilla?” the woman suggested, unsure.

Rachel smelled her own whisky. Vanilla, indeed. But more, much more. Gingernut biscuits, hints of toffee apples, nutmeg, and cooked fruit.

“And porridge oats,” Fraser suggested with a grin.

Rachel smelled again. Porridge oats. It was there, but she had totally missed it the first time. She had to get better. Then she drank. It was definitely malty, and spicy, with notes of cocoa butter. Maybe some hints of salted caramel and custard, as well.

It was hours later when they ended up back at the bar. Ian was chatting with the tall woman Rachel had seen in the picture at the distillery.

“This is Rachel Hunter, the wine lover we’re trying to convert to whisky.”

“I think you’ve managed that already,” Rachel said with a smile.

“Rachel, this is my daughter, Brianna,” Jamie Fraser introduced the woman in front of them, giving her a sweet smile.

“Nice to meet you, Rachel,” she said, extending her hand. “And to have you on board. Hi Da,” she said turning to Fraser and she rose on her tiptoes to give him a kiss.

“How’s Jem?” Fraser asked, frowning.

“Better. No fever today. He’s home with Roger, but I just came by to say a quick hello and see how the event was. It’s going well, right?”

“More than well,” Fraser agreed, content, and went on to share the liquor store owners and whisky lovers that had shown interest in the new Fraser blends.

–

The room was nearly empty two hours later, and Rachel plopped herself down on a stool at the bar to watch Ian arrange clean glasses. Her feet were killing her.

“Are you as tired as I am?” she asked, trying to start a conversation.

“Dinna ken. Probably.”

“Did Murtagh leave?” She looked around. A waiter - Rabbie, she reminded herself - was still cleaning tables. Fraser had left fifteen minutes ago, followed by William who drove Brianna home. He suggested Rachel go with them, but she had politely declined the offer.

“Aye, I’m closing the bar tonight.” Ian gave her a small, tired smile. “Yer drink,” he said, handing her the tumbler she had left on the bar hours ago. “Although the aroma will not be the same now. It’s been in the glass too long.”

“Ian,” she started, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry I didn’t drink it. Your uncle came, and…”

“Dinna apologize, lass. I ken. I just thought I would keep it for ye.”

She took a sip, his smile lighting a fire under her skin, stronger than the alcohol in her drink.

“Ian,” she said, eyes fixed on the amber liquid. “What was that, before? With William? About the whisky?”

Ian looked at her, squaring his shoulders. “I wasna supposed to open that bottle.” He shrugged, exactly as he had done the first time, when William had asked.

“So why did you open it?” Rachel felt her heart stop.

“I wanted to,” he said, looking at her for a long moment before he tore his eyes away. They were dark green, intense, fiery.

“You shouldn’t have.” She hoped he would look at her again. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Ah, I’m in trouble anyway, dinna fash.” He looked at her then, his lips curled up, his hands still.

Looks like  _I’m_  in trouble, she thought. She couldn’t say that aloud, though.

“Dinna… what?” she asked instead, laughing. She loved listening to his Scottish accent.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and Rachel decided that his version of an American accent was terrible.

“You do know that’s not even an accent? An existing one, I mean.”

Ian laughed, but didn’t continue their banter. “Ye can leave, Rabbie!” he said to the waiter a moment later. “I think we’re done.”

Rabbie nodded, walked to the kitchen to retrieve his stuff, and bid them goodnight.

“Will ye help me move those empty bottles upstairs?” Ian asked.

“Sure!” Rachel went behind the bar, and ended up standing in front of him, waiting for him to move. He didn’t. Ian stood still, looking at her. “What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

He raised his hand, softly tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Nothing,” he whispered, and Rachel felt grateful that the music was still on. If not, he might have heard her thundering heart.

Ian turned abruptly and picked up four bottles, leaving two behind for Rachel. He walked to the end of the bar, pushed open a wooden door and disappeared behind it. Rachel followed him, then climbed the stairs behind the doorway and found herself in a small warehouse, bottles and boxes neatly stacked, a small window on the right wall, facing the street in front of the bar.

She left the bottles in the box Ian indicated, and turned to go to back when his hand stopped her. It was electrifying, his touch.

“Do ye have to go home now?”

“No.”

“Care to stay with me for a while?”

“Yes.”

It was simple, being with him. It was easy.

Ian arranged two big wooden crates, side by side in front of the window for them to sit. They weren’t wide, their arms occasionally touching, Rachel’s skirt half covering Ian’s thigh. The street was glinting under the lights - a summer rain, just to remind them where they were. Scotland loved the rain.

“You did great tonight,” he said, and his hand moved to cover hers, squeezing lightly. It was gone almost before she could register the touch. Ian raised a half-full whisky bottle, as if toasting to her, took a sip, and passed it to her.

Rachel raised the bottle to her mouth, distracted by the intimacy of his lips touching the very same spot just moments before. She took a full sip, not spending a second to appreciate the notes of fruits and spices in it. With Ian so close to her, she didn’t want to mix his scent with anything else. She wanted to share his drink, his secrets.

“Thank you,” she said, thankful that he couldn’t see her blush. It was dim in the warehouse, the half-closed door blocking almost all the light from the stairway. “Do you come here often?” she asked, handing the bottle back to him, trying to steer her thoughts away from his mouth.

“Aye, ye could say that. If my uncle agreed, I could even live here. A bed is the only thing I’d need.”

“A bed? In here?” she asked, looking around.

“Aye,” Ian whispered.

She was still looking around, wondering where would a bed fit in the small room.

“Why did you say you’re in trouble be- ” Her words faded out when his hand cupped her cheek, bringing her face an inch away from his.

Her breath hitched in her throat and her heart raced.

Rachel’s tongue moved involuntarily to lick her lips, but she didn’t have time. It was  _his_  lips that she licked, the whisky on  _his_  tongue that she tasted. She opened her mouth to him, feeling his hand run through her hair, pulling her closer.

It wasn’t the whisky, it was Ian; he was intoxicating. His touch, his scent, his taste. He was sharp and soft, fruity and spicy. He was strong, and he took over her senses with a kiss that left her dizzy and lost, yet found.

His eyes were dark when he looked at her again, his breaths coming as fast as hers.

“Hi,” he sighed, and his eyes crinkled just a bit.

“Hi,” she said, and her voice shook, even though it had only been two letters. “Ian,” she whispered. Just three letters, changing everything.


	5. Blends

Rachel was sure that the whisky spices she still felt tingling her tongue were the ones she had stolen from Ian when they had kissed. His taste lingered in her mouth, stimulating her senses and taking her fatigue away, as the fresh summer breeze stirred the day’s heat towards the hills. Her steps were lively again, her feet moving along with his as Ian walked her back home. **  
**

They were casual, talking about the distillery, laughing at the contrast between Murtagh’s grumpiness and Jamie’s wide smile. They joked about secretly getting a bed in the warehouse for Ian, one enchanted with spells that would make it disappear with the rising of the sun. Ian nudged her with a cheeky smile and said that this would be the perfect setup. His gaze was intense, and she felt her heart flutter in response to the silent, unuttered words between them.

They were a few blocks from her apartment when through an increasing amount of “accidental” brushes, she found her fingers intertwined with his own.

Her hand seemed small inside his, her fingers too fragile between his long and graceful ones. The way he ran his thumb over her skin required all her self-control to calm her breathing.

There wasn’t enough air.

And just like that, they were standing in front of her door. Rachel debated for a moment whether she should invite him in, but Ian was faster and announced he had to leave. He had to walk Rollo. With all the preparations for the distillery’s event, he’d been running errands all day and his poor dog was waiting for him at home.

They didn’t move, in an infinite moment when the uncertainty of their thundering hearts made them bounce on the balls of their feet. They were standing too close. They were standing too far. It didn’t take long for Ian to eliminate the distance and pull her to him, his teeth instantly capturing her lips between them.

Their kiss was a flame that burned them both. They let it reach deeper and deeper, knowing that it was too early for words to convey their want, their needs of each other. Wishing that their lips were eloquent enough not to allow the doubts and second thoughts prevail.

They spent a long moment just looking at each other when they finally broke their kiss. Basking in the glow of the moment, new colors dancing in their eyes for only them to see.

Rachel traced the side of his face; the strong cheekbone, the soft skin just above his trimmed beard. It was her time to kiss him then, and their lips and tongues spoke a more gentle language, adding new dimensions to the world they’d started creating.

With a final, almost chaste goodnight kiss, he walked away. She saw him fixing his hair in a bun, his t-shirt stretching across his shoulders while doing so, and she smiled, knowing it was her fingers that had messed up his hair. Then, he turned to look at her, and Rachel realized that she hadn’t moved an inch since he left. But Ian just smiled. She smiled back, then turned and climbed the stairs to her apartment.

The moment she hit her bed, her exhaustion and the warmth of Ian’s kisses covered her like a fuzzy blanket smelling of whisky and him.

That Saturday, she slept in.

The morning sunlight caressed the curtains covering Rachel’s windows with timid fingers, as if asking for permission to enter. Its warmth filled the room, and Rachel’s mind grasped a few of the rays, adding them to her dream. She was alone with Ian, walking along a river in the Highlands. It was a cloudy day, and she imagined that a little sunlight might bring out the green in his eyes.

The sun continued its journey in the sky, leaving her smiling in her sleep. When Rachel finally opened her eyes, she half-expected Ian to be next to her. Seeing that she was alone in her room, she tried to fall asleep again, longing to continue the conversation they had in her dream. She closed her eyes and focused on his voice. She tried to bring his eyes in front of her again, but in vain. The dream was gone.

It was well past noon, and her head felt almost as heavy as her feet.

Regretting the absurd amounts of whisky she had consumed the previous night, Rachel checked her phone. For a moment, she panicked, thinking that the previous night was nothing more than her morning walk with Ian by the river. A dream. It took her a moment to realize that Ian hadn’t asked for her number.

For a second, she didn’t breathe.

Then, she inhaled deeply with her eyes closed, and she could almost smell him. The pepper and the cinnamon, and that fruity essence she didn’t have a name for. Everything that was him.

Rachel stayed in bed, going over the details of the previous night. The quiet warehouse, the shared bottle of whisky, the warmth of the glass against her lips moments after it was on his, their first, second, third kiss. Each moment felt special; like he was opening yet another door to let her in. And they were all real.

The day went by in a blur. Having climbed out of bed at 2 pm, there wasn’t much time for Rachel and Denny to finish their weekend to-do list. Denny was excited about the new techniques he was learning at the hospital and Rachel found herself occupied with listening to her brother going on about knee arthroscopy and anterior cruciate ligament reconstruction. Whatever. He was happy and that was enough, even though listening to medical terms for half a day had never been an enjoyable activity for her. After the two of them finished their grocery shopping and cleaned the house, Rachel sank into her bed as tired as the previous night. Only not as blissful.

He had said “See you,” with a mischievous smile before leaving her. And the way he had looked at her just before the night had swallowed him had her almost convinced that he had felt that connection between them too.

But her phone was silent. No missed calls. No messages.

Jamie Fraser had her number. William, too. It wasn’t difficult to get it off of one of them and call her - if he wanted to.

Sunday went by excruciatingly slowly. When Rachel admitted to herself that there was no chance of reading — after holding the book on the same page for almost half an hour — she grabbed her phone and searched for his name on Facebook.

She didn’t have full access to his profile, so there wasn’t much to see there apart from a picture of him and Rollo on a snowy Scottish mountain. With his dark blue hardshell jacket, the beanie and the hood on top of it, she barely recognized him - she wouldn’t, if not for his broad grin. He seemed carefree, happy.

She locked her phone, set it decisively on the coffee table next to her book and looked out the window with her lips pressed into a tight line. A fit of unexplained anger rose up inside of her, making the memory of Ian’s warmth bitter, sharp. Painful.

She wasn’t angry with him. He hadn’t made her any promises. He had kissed her, a night when they were both slightly inebriated. And then, he hadn’t even asked for her number. If he was something, Rachel thought, he was clear and straightforward.

But she was angry at herself, for letting her mind wander into a future vague and unsure. She was never one to run after pink, puffy clouds. She was a sensible type of person, the one who keeps their feet stable on the ground.

Maybe she was too desperate to find something that would bind her to Scotland. Maybe Ian was just a way to convince herself that she hadn’t lost everything after leaving California. That there was something here for her, too.

She checked her phone again. Nothing.

–

On Monday, Rachel and William would start their first attempt on creating a blend. Jamie thought it a good idea to leave the two of them alone, see what they would come up with. A wee test, he had said. William had rolled his eyes. Rachel had nodded with her lips pressed tight together, searching Fraser’s face for any indication of being genuine or not. He meant it, she had decided.

Rachel entered the building with a smile, carrying two cups of coffee. The smile froze on her lips almost instantly. Ian was there, behind the bar, arranging whisky bottles in a case.

“Morning,” he said softly, his smile quickly piercing the layers of indifference she had carefully constructed.

“Good morning, Rachel.” William’s cheerful voice came from the opposite direction. He was sitting behind the desk with papers scattered all around him.

“Good morning!” Rachel looked at Ian, who hadn’t taken his eyes away from her. When she glanced back at William, she saw that he was walking towards her.

“Let me help you with these,” he said, and took both paper cups from her hands. “Two coffees? Tough morning?” he jested and winked at her.

“I owe you, from the last time,” Rachel explained with a faint blush on her cheeks. “I didn’t know…” she trailed off, looking at Ian apologetically.

“Oh, no worries,” he said with a shrug and moved to lift the case. “I’m leaving anyway,” he added in a slightly more strained voice, the bottles’ weight having an effect on him. “Murtagh is waiting.”

He smiled at her again, and before Rachel could gather her thoughts and say something, he was out of the door.

“See you!”

That stupid  _see you_  again. Maybe it was just his way of saying goodbye.

She stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door when William grunted behind her. He had returned to the desk and was now looking at the papers with his hand set upon his forehead.

“Can I help?” Rachel asked, trying to think of anything but Ian.

Working would be good. It would be a distraction.

And yet, as Rachel approached the desk, there was nothing in her mind apart from Ian’s smile.

_Why look at her like that if their kisses hadn’t meant anything to him?_

Maybe she had overreacted about him not calling her, though. It had only been two days, after all.

She helped William with the invoices he had to file and then they focused on the larger task at hand. Neither of them was a master blender — far from it — and the final product of their labour wouldn’t be one to reach the shelves, but it would be judged. They had to take it seriously.

A blend consists of anything from fifteen to fifty single malts. And finding which single whiskies to blend meant that they had to characterize each one of them first. With their notebooks in hand, Rachel and William started the tasting of each of Lallybroch’s fine single malt and grain whiskies. First, they noted the dominant characteristic. Fruity, spicy, nutty, smoky. Then, the more specific odors that danced around them. Apple, pear, cinnamon, black pepper, honey, leather, toffee, vanilla, almond - whatever hit their olfactory receptors was transferred onto the paper in front of them.

Whisky was a challenge for Rachel. It was intriguing and creative. It made her think. What was the essence of each whisky? What characteristics she would keep? How she would accentuate the stronger points? How she would hide the weaknesses?

Each whisky had a character - it didn’t always get along with all the rest. Like people, more or less.

And Rachel found that working with William was fun. Were they a blend, she’d describe it as smooth, easy in the mouth. He was patient with her, always explaining the bits she didn’t know, filling the gaps created by her limited reading and her non-existent experience. He was kind and smart. Just like his father, he made Rachel care for the whisky, for the distillery.

The sun was setting when they locked the door behind them. William invited her to dinner, but Rachel was looking forward to going home, slipping into her pyjamas and relaxing with a book.

She was on her way to do just that, when her phone vibrated inside her pocket.

Unknown number.

_Care to join me for a walk, master blender?_

Ian. The two of them together. Another blend. Strong. Spicy and nutty, with just a hint of toffee to make his smiles sweet and addictive, and drive her nuts.


End file.
